


In the Morning, I'll Call You

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something unsettling about feeling everything and nothing all at once.  Ward might eat himself alive if Skye doesn’t stop him. She’s not even sure if she can.  Rape CW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Morning, I'll Call You

He comes down to the sick bay when it is dark and she is half asleep.  He comes in often, but never this late and never without knocking.  He sneaks in without her knowing, and when she rolls over in a half awake stupor and her eyes make out a silhouette in the dark, it makes perfect sense for her to jump in terror.

“Hey, hey,” Ward says, quietly. “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”

“Well I’m awake now,” Skye says.  “Do you want to get the lights?”  He flicks all of them on at once, and she lifts her arm to block out the fluorescents.

“Too many,” Skye whines, “just keep like, one set on.”  He fumbles this time around, flicking lights on and off and swearing to himself under his breath, like he’s making some kind of huge mistake.

“Ward,” she says, finally, when the back lights are on and the room is dim, “this is fine.  It’s fine.  Sit down.”  He does.

 

 

She remembers asking, hours ago, if he was “like a pod person, or something?” And she remembers promptly thinking after that, _not that we’d be able to tell._ And she regrets that now, even if she never said it out loud.  Ward is just sitting there, staring at her, and it’s unnerving and sweet all at once, but it makes her wonder what, exactly, he’s trying to gage by staring at her.

“I went through your accounts,” Skye tells him.  She says it like a joke.  She says it because she can’t think of anything else.  He only cocks his head, but his face stays the same.  She doesn’t feel less tense.  She feels more tense, actually.

“Not like, for shits and giggles,” she says, “I was looking for you.”

“Oh,” Ward replies.  His eyes are harder to see in the dim light, and she thinks he might be leaning into the shadows on purpose.

“You have some quality fakes,” Skye says, trying to smile, “and I know fake IDs.”

“They’re not technically fake,” Ward says.  If he’s annoyed, she can’t tell.  She can’t tell if he’s feeling anything at all.

“I found your lockers, too,” she says.  If she stops talking, the room will get quiet, and she’ll have nothing to think about but the frown tugging at Ward’s lips.

“You travel a lot,” she says.  “I’m kind of jealous.”

“Don’t be,” Ward replies, “they’re just back-up plans.”  She shifts in her bed, wrinkling the top sheet in the process.  She gathers her comforter in her arms, holds it to her chest.  It makes her feel like there’s something here between her and Ward, more than just this silence.

 

 

“Ward,” she whispers, hugging the blanket, “What are you doing down here?”  He shrugs.

“I was going to try and sleep,” he says.

“In that chair?” she asks.  He nods.  He rolls his shoulders.

“It’s not that bad,” he says.  She’s only now noticing that his voice keeps falling flat, more than usual.  He’s not as monotone as she likes to pretend.  He’s got ups and downs and a real life smile, and she’s worried.

“You could come sit next to me,” Skye says.  Ward wraps one of his hands around the seat of the chair.  Like he’s anchoring himself.

“I’m fine,” he says.  He doesn’t sound fine.

“Ward,” Skye says, and she presses the blanket down, even though it makes her feel safer, “Grant.  What happened?”

“What did Coulson tell you?” Ward asks.  Skye digs her nails into the comforter, and hopes he doesn’t notice.  He leans forward.  “Skye?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Skye says, “he just told us Lorelei had you.  And to find you.  That’s it.”  Ward nods, once.  Places his hands on his knees, leans his head forward.  He breathes in.  He breathes out.

“I hurt May,” he says, in a voice so small and ashamed that Skye wants to get out of bed and hold him, but she feels like touching him right now would be in a mistake.

“Ward,” Skye starts, and without looking up, he shakes his head, as if to say _let me finish._

“I told her things.  About the team, about myself, about SHIELD,” he is quiet and unsure and his shoulders are too tense.  “We had sex,” he says, and Skye at once feels her stomach drop.  

 

 

Grant Ward, her beautiful, bumbling SO with a heart better than hers could ever hope to be.  She almost says, _you were raped,_ out loud, just so he can hear it, just so he can know that it’s not him, but she suddenly recognizes his tension as thinly veiled fragility.  She doesn’t want to say it aloud.  Why would she make him face the word like that?  He doesn’t gauge hurt like he should.  He’s never said to her, “I was abused,” only “my brother beat the shit out of me.”  And now, instead of “I was raped,” he gives her, “we had sex.”  It’s how he categorizes things, in a way that keeps them locked away where they can’t be known or seen or ever thought about.  But he’s thinking about it, now, and Skye has no idea what to do.

 

 

She thinks, at first, to make another joke.  Something about Las Vegas, about how cheesy it was to pick Caesar’s Palace, of all places.  She thinks that she should tell him she’s been there, she knows, but that would- that wouldn’t get anything done.  Ward doesn’t need to know that.  She gathers up her courage, and in the most commanding voice she can muster, she says,

“It’s not your fault.”  There’s nothing else she really can say, here.  She’s not good with picking careful words. She’d never expected that she’d have to have this conversation with Ward.  She’s choking on her own worries.  She could ask, “how are you feeling?” because she honestly has no idea other than ‘hurt,’ or ‘confused,’ or maybe ‘furious.’  She feels it for him, crashing like waves in her chest.

“I let her,” he says, and then stops.  “I let her hurt May.”

“You didn’t let her do anything,” Skye says.  She pushes herself onto her knees, despite the burning protests in her stomach.  She crawls to the edge of her bed, slowly, keeping in mind the wires and tubes stuck along her hands and arms.

“Ward,” she says, and then, quieter, “Grant.”  He looks up.

“You shouldn’t be at the edge of your bed,” he says.  “Get back under the covers.”  

Skye shakes her head. “This isn’t about me,” she says.  

“Get back under the covers,” he says, again.  It’s not an order.  It sounds deflated.  A last ditch effort to protect the un-protectable.  To prove that he still can.

 

 

 

“Will it make you feel better if I do?” Skye asks.

“Probably not,” Ward says.  “I was just trying to help.”  Skye bends back on her legs, slowly gets under the covers again.  She winces when she bends over, her stomach protesting the movement.  That’s when Ward chooses to get up, to pull the covers back for her so she doesn’t have to twist as much.

“Thanks,” Skye says.  She resists the urge to touch his hand.

“You should go to bed,” he says.

“We’re not done here,” Skye says, and he flinches and she knows she’s said something wrong.  She’s just not sure what.  She’s actually not sure if she’s said anything right, or if there are “right” words in this entire fucked up situation.

 

 

 

“Can you pull your chair closer to my bed?” Skye asks, “if that’s okay.”  He scrapes the chair across the floor when he moves it.  It’s the loudest he’s been all night and Skye tucks her chin on instinct to block out the sound.

“Sorry,” he says, leaning over her, “that was stupid.  That was so stupid of me.  I’m sorry.”  Skye looks up at him, at his hands that float around her shoulders, but not touching her skin.  

“It’s fine,” Skye says.  “Sit down, okay?” he drops his arms to his sides, and when he sits down he slumps.  She’s never seen him slump.  She didn’t know he could.  He lolls his head back and stares at the lights.

“That’s bad for your eyes,” Skye says.  He shrugs.  “Ward.”  He doesn’t move.  He just sits there, arms hanging over the chair and legs spread out in front of him, far too long for such a short chair.  She watches the tic in his jaw, the way it trembles.  The way his chest shakes when he breathes.  She is overwhelmed by the silence.  It doesn’t suit her, it doesn’t suit him like she thought it did.  She realizes that he is always talking, despite himself, always coming up with things to say back to her and fill the space between them.  But there’s just too much and so he gives her nothing at all.

 

 

“It felt like the sodium pentathol,” Ward says, so timidly that for a second Skye is certain she’s hearing things.

Ward’s staring at the light, still, so Skye asks, “Did you say something?”  

He bows his head forward, slowly, finally shying out of the all seeing eye of the fluorescent lights.

“Yeah,” he says, lacing his fingers together, “I said ‘It felt like the sodium pentathol.’”  

“Oh?” Skye says.  “What does, um, what does sodium pentathol feel like?”  She stares at Ward’s hands, and it almost looks like he’s praying.  Or begging.

“It feels like the entire world is moving around you,” Ward says, “but you’re trapped until someone says you can move.”  Skye watches him twitch his fingers, shuffle his feet, as if he’s proving that he’s back in his body.

“Do you remember all of it?” she asks.  Ward looks up at her, then, and his eyes are not wet but they are deep and dark all the same.

“Every part,” Ward says.  “And I knew, somewhere, that it was wrong.  But I couldn’t stop myself.”

“If it helps,” Skye says, “I’ve felt like that a thousand times.”  She breaks the eye contact.  “And I wasn’t under any spell.  None at all.”  Ward pulls the chair closer to her, she can tell by watching his feet slide across the floor.  He’s quieter about moving the chair, this time.

“Skye?” Ward asks, and for the first time all evening, there’s life in his voice.  Concern.  She knows she’s said too much.  She’s just trying to help.

“You are honest-to-God the best person I’ve ever met,” Skye says, and she doesn’t know why her voice is shaking.  “You don’t deserve to feel bad about this, Ward.  It wasn’t your fault.  I promise you, it wasn’t your fault.”  She looks up at him, and maybe she shouldn’t expect him to cry.  She would cry, she has cried, but this is Ward, and Ward doesn’t cry.  Not for himself, at least.

 

 

 

Without warning, Skye starts to cry for him.  Not in big sobs, just in terrible, leaky tears.  She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Skye says, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t be crying.  This isn’t about me.”

“It’s okay,” Ward says, and he reaches out for a fraction of an instant but drops his hand just as quickly.

“I guess I’m crying for you,” she says.  “One of us should be crying.”  Her voice comes out in breathy shudders.  She gulps down air.

“Don’t cry for me,” Ward says, suddenly, and the concern is back, staining his face and his words, “Please.  Please don’t cry for me.”

“I can’t help it,” Skye says, “I can’t stop.”  And she sobs, despite trying to keep it in her chest.

“Skye,” Ward whispers, “Skye, please.”  She’s pulled her knees up to her chest, buried her head in.  She’s trying to count to ten.  She’s trying to breathe.

“I just...” she says, trying to lift her head “you could see it, and you couldn’t stop it, and you’re so good and wonderful and to think that someone would do that to you, is just-” 

Ward grabs her arm.  She freezes.  He freezes.  She sniffles, once.

“I’m okay,” he tells her.  “I’m okay.”  She shakes her head.  Her cheeks are wet.

“No,” she replies, “you’re not.”  His grip is light and afraid, and she doesn’t blame him.

“You don’t have to touch me,” Skye says.  “I’m-” she breathes in, out, in, “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Ward says.  “Do you,” he swallows, “do you not want me to touch you?”

“I just want you to be happy,” Skye says.  It’s so cheesy and melodramatic, and this is not lost on either of them.  Happy is a funny word, in that way.

“I think,” Ward says, “I think I’d like to be happy, too.”  Her tears have stopped, but the shaking hasn’t.

“What can I do?” she asks.  “What can I do to help, Ward?  I don’t know if I’ve been helping at all and you’re just sitting here and I’m so scared for you and-”

“You can go to sleep,” he tells her.  “You can stop worrying about me, and get your rest.”  He takes his hand off her arm.

“I will never, ever stop worrying about you,” Skye says, “especially now.  I’m going to protect you, too.”

“I’m fine,” he says.  “Really.  I just needed to talk.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” Skye says.

“I’m scared, too,” Ward says.  It comes out quickly, quietly. “I’m scared shitless.  I don’t know what to do when I lose control.”

“You come to me,” Skye says, almost demands, “and I’ll protect you.”

“I could’ve killed you,” he says.  The numbness is creeping back into his tone.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Skye says.  She’ll say it until she loses her voice.  

 

 

“I-” he says, “I think you should go to sleep.  I’ll sleep if you do.”  He’s got her there.   He’s tired.  She can tell.  Not just physically.  He looks like his very soul is about to bleed out.  She wants desperately for him to rest.  For him to forget this mess and just sleep until he’s better.

“Do you want to go get a mattress, or something?” Skye asks, “I’m sure there’s a cot on this plane.”

He shifts in his chair.  He doesn’t push it back.  He looks almost like he’s trying to get comfortable.  Like he really is going to fall asleep down here.

“The chair’s fine,” Ward says.  “Really.  It’s okay.”  He’s said that to her so many times that she’s convinced it means nothing at all.  Skye lays down, slowly, keeping her eyes on his.

“Goodnight, Ward,” she says.  “Wake me up if you need me.”  He nods.  He doesn’t smile, but he looks less frightened that he did when he came in, and she’s sure that’s worth something.  He gets up and flicks the lights off.  She shuts her eyes.

 

 

She doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t know if he does, but she knows that she hears him sob, once, in the dark.  

“It’s okay,” she says.  She knows it means nothing.  She just doesn’t know what else to say.


End file.
